


Something Rare

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees & Beekeeping, Established Relationship, Experimentation, Explosions, Fatherhood, Fire, Honey, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:18:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And I’m to be the fire brigade, then? Keep you patched up like always?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Rare

“Rosebay Willowherb” Sherlock said.

“I’m sorry, who?” John replied from his chair.

“Not a who, John. A what. A plant, specifically. Rosebay Willowherb, _Epilobium angustifolium_. ‘Fireweed’ in North America.” Sherlock explained. “It used to be considered a rare species here in Britain until the railway network expansion and its associated disturbance of the soil. It is also the county flower of London.”

“And is that important to a case?” Anything could be important to a case, John knew. There were always ongoing experiments happening inside 221B (and more recently 221C). Experiments involving mold, bleach, scorch patterns from various irons, wound tracks from different kitchen knives, and one involving nail polish that was particularly embarrassing for John. So, an experiment involving a plant sounded fairly harmless.

“No.” replied Sherlock and then he fell silent. John sat for a few minutes waiting for more information from his detective.

“So, if not for a case, what then?” 

“You will think I’m being ridiculous.” Did Sherlock Holmes actually sound embarrassed? He did. Now John had to know. 

“Come on, love,” John prodded, “Tell me. I promise I won’t say a word.” He was looking a Sherlock who had several books on botany open in front of him on the table.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “When we retire I want to keep bees. My family has property in Sussex and I want us to move there and I will keep bees.”

“Bees?” There was a framed picture of a bee on the wall in their bedroom and John had wondered about it. Over the years the various pieces of “art work” in their flat had consisted of their Cluedo game board stuck to the wall with a jack knife, splatters of HP Sauce on the kitchen ceiling, Ewan’s drawings on the fridge, the periodic table, a yellow smiley face, a picture of a skull, and two actual skulls (one human, one bovine). Now the bee’s portrait made more sense.

“And how does the plant come into that plan?” 

“Honey.” He said in a tone that said ‘Do try to keep up, John’.

“Okay. Does this, what was it, fireweed grow in Sussex?” John was no gardener. 

“It will. I will plant fields of it. Mono floral honey made from fireweed is not produced here in Britain and I want to try my hand at it. If I’m going to keep bees, and they are going to be making honey anyway, I may as well have them produce a superior flavoured one.”

Of course Sherlock would pick some old fashioned hobby to occupy his retirement, and of course he would want to produce something rare. It made sense.

“The best part is how I will plant the fireweed.” Sherlock had that look in his eye. The look that came before something exploded or they did something fantastically stupid and/or death defying.

“Uh oh,” John waited for the other shoe to drop…

“Its called ‘fireweed’ for a reason, John. It rapidly colonizes burnt out areas after forest fires. The seeds need _flame_! They need the heat of a fire to germinate.” 

“You’re not planning on setting fire to your family’s property are you?” John hoped not. He set fire to enough things in the flat, including himself on occasion.

“Of course not. Well, not all of it. Fireweed was also known for a while as ‘bomb weed’. It grew here in the bomb craters during WWII.” 

John rolled his eyes and had a very clear picture in his mind of his love standing in a field with a remote detonator in hand, blasting holes in the countryside of Sussex.

“And I’m to be the fire brigade, then? Keep you patched up like always?” John was teasing a little now. 

John got out of his chair and went to stand behind his husband. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

“I need you there, John. What if I get stung?”

“Are you allergic to bee stings, Sherlock?” 

“I don’t know.”

Of course Sherlock would pick some old fashioned hobby to occupy his retirement, and of course he would want to produce something rare. And if he got to set fire to things and blow things to bits, that made perfect sense too. And John would be there, as always, to put out Sherlock’s fires and bind up his wounds.


End file.
